


Like Pomegranates Grow

by ester_inc



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:00:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ester_inc/pseuds/ester_inc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smoke clings to Grantaire's clothing, and there's wine on his breath, but he doesn't ask for more than Enjolras can give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Pomegranates Grow

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a poem called "Parachutes, My Love, Could Carry Us Higher" by Barbara Guest.

It was late when Grantaire slunk in. He liberated a bottle of wine and found an empty seat in a corner of the room, his slumped shoulders inviting no company. Whether company found him regardless, Enjolras did not know, for this was the sum total of his observations and his interest; he turned to Feuilly and Combeferre, and was soon swept up in their conversation.

Grantaire gave Enjolras no reason to think of him again until the meeting was over and, out on the street, a drunken shadow attached itself to Enjolras' footsteps. Enjolras slowed down and the shadow hesitated, then hurried to Enjolras' side.

"If you had something to say, you might have said it sooner," Enjolras commented. His patience for Grantaire was ever in short supply, and always at its shortest when Grantaire was drunk, which was most times.

"Few enjoy seeing a dog get kicked," Grantaire said. "Even an old, flea ridden mongrel trying to fill its belly with food that doesn't belong to it often garners sympathy from passersby."

Witness: Grantaire, the mongrel, groveling for scraps; and Enjolras, expected to punish him for it.

"You thought to spare our friends," said Enjolras. "Few enjoy seeing a dog in pain, mongrel or not; if you think so little of me, perhaps you should seek out the favor of another."

"I think the world of you," swore Grantaire. "I thought only to spare myself."

Enjolras stopped at the mouth of a narrow side street and turned to Grantaire. "What is it that you want that you do not wish our friends to witness?"

"The things I want are as numerous as rats in the sewers, and as pure, and as valuable. You would deny me any one of them, and the fault would be mine for asking. I am at fault; I am asking. What I wish to deny from the others is the knowledge of your refusal, for that is mine, and mine alone."

Grantaire looked ill, his eyes bloodshot and weary, his face puffy from drink; but this was nothing unusual. When a further visual inspection yielded no clues, Enjolras capitulated.

"Ask."

Grantaire huffed out a breath, amused and bitter and adoring all at once. "Ask, he says. All is simple for those who know no doubt. Hear now, does autumn hesitate before it turns into winter? Does spring drag its feet before giving in to summer? Did Persephone know what she was doing when she ate the seeds? Yes! No! You see? I am not worth Demeter's tears; I am not worth one seed; I am one of the despairing dead, reaching out for Persephone's warmth."

Enjolras frowned as Grantaire swayed closer; underneath the stench of the street and the stale wine on Grantaire's breath, there was a whiff of smoke and ashes.

"Ask, he commands, and a fine command it is. Very well, here I am, at fault. Yesterday I had lodgings, and perhaps I shall have them again tomorrow, but on this night, I stand before you with naught to my name but the clothes on my back. I would follow you home, Enjolras, if you would allow it. I would sit by your door with my eyes closed, and ask for nothing more: your presence would be enough."

"Your lodgings –?" Enjolras asked, at something of a loss for words.

"Up in the sky, along with all else I had, little as it was; if there was more light, you might still see the smoke." Grantaire waved over his shoulder, a grand gesture, lacking in direction. "Worry not about the neighborhood. The sappers were swift, and my building was the only one to suffer."

"You truly have nothing left?"

"I have more than I deserve."

Enjolras suppressed the urge to shake Grantaire. "Did you not tell any of the others? They would surely have offered you a place to stay."

"I will tell them tomorrow, and I know as well as you that they will help me find another place – something closer to the Musain, perhaps – but tonight, I do not want their kind words nor their good intentions. I want your floor, and your presence. I feel as if more has been taken from me than my meager possessions add up to by any fair measuring. This pointless heartache makes a fool out of me, I know, and yet I am slave to it. I wish to be reminded of what I still have, what I haven't yet lost, and so I ask: your floor, Enjolras, and your presence."

Looking at the crown of Grantaire's lowered head, Enjolras shook his own. "You do think little of me, to believe I would turn away a fellow man in need."

"I know your worth, and my own," Grantaire said, looking up with a complex mixture of gentle resignation, surprise and gratitude. "There is no comparison."

"No man is above another," Enjolras reprimanded him. "The only thing setting you apart is your refusal to seek betterment. You find your enlightenment in wine and your causes in absinthe; and you come to me and turn me into a false god carved out of stone; and you blame the pedestal you built for leaving you kneeling on the ground."

Grantaire closed his eyes and tilted his head back as if Enjolras' harsh words were a blessing. "I am enlightened; I have a cause. I do not ask for wine nor absinthe, for they are a given. You are not."

Enjolras held back a sigh and turned to look down the street. "It's late, and I grow weary of arguing. Come if you will." Thus saying, he resumed walking. Grantaire followed.

The room Enjolras was renting had little apart from his desk and a bed. Candlelight was of little help against the spartan accommodations, but Grantaire gave no indication of finding his surroundings lacking. He sat down by the door with his back against the wall and closed his eyes, for all appearances content.

Something vicious brewed under Enjolras' breast, and he looked sharply away from Grantaire inhabiting the role of a loyal mutt.

"Stand up, Grantaire."

Enjolras heard rather than saw Grantaire reluctantly obey the order.

"Have you changed your mind?" Grantaire asked.

"The floor is cold, and you've suffered enough hardship for one day," Enjolras said, moving to take a seat at his desk. "Take the bed; I have work still to be done."

Grantaire moved, but not to the bed. He knelt by Enjolras' chair.

"Stand up," Enjolras said, icy, "before I do send you back into the night."

"I ask for too much," said Grantaire.

"You ask for too little," replied Enjolras.

"I would eat pomegranates from your hand."

"Go to sleep."

It took another moment, but this time, when Grantaire stood, he did take the bed. Enjolras listened to the rustle of blankets and the creak of the wooden frame – how strange it was to not be the one responsible for those sounds. He opened a book he was in the middle of studying and drew the candle close to spare his eyes. The arguments laid out in ink sharpened his focus and gave it direction regardless of the late hour, and Grantaire's breathing soon got lost in the turning of the pages.

The candle burned low when Enjolras roused from his reading. Grantaire was asleep. Enjolras stood up and stretched, his eyes following the shifting shadows. He stepped closer to the bed, and then, careful, quiet, sat down on the edge of it. Sleep had smoothed out the brittle melancholy that clung to Grantaire like frost lingered on the ground, and the disdain Enjolras so often felt when looking at him was muted.

Enjolras wasn't sure how long he sat there, pondering the nature of men, and Grantaire in particular. Far from unique in the grand scheme of things, Grantaire was nonetheless one of the most singularly frustrating anomalies in Enjolras' existence. He asked for little and expected nothing; he had knowledge but no ambition; he attached himself to the present at the cost of seeing the future.

Enjolras had said: you ask for too little; but they both knew he had nothing more to give. The fires of revolution needed stoking, and there was more at stake than losing some meager possessions, no matter how dear.

"Come dawn, we are foreign to each other once more." So saying, Enjolras rested his hand on Grantaire's head, dark hair curling around his fingers. Grantaire did not stir.

Enjolras stood and returned to his chair. He lit a candle when the old one died, but did not reach for another book; he studied Grantaire instead, and dreamed of blood on the barricades, and the tomorrow to come.


End file.
